We hear the great earth sigh and turn, And the angry sunsets flame and burn With old dreams dying. But earlier than the early dawn, So chill, so grayly, Comes that which never is withdrawn, Comes to us, after every mood Of pain or passion- Of what we fashion! Are you so devout, who never trod 'Neath spire or steeple? But we have spoken with our God, Our blood the dye, his robe the sod That we lie under; We have heard the still voice of our God Through flame and thunder. What are these wild words of some change You bring to being? We only know it shall be strange Beyond foreseeing! We have lain down, we have stood up (Past all dissembling!) With Death, with Death. We have quaffed the cup, The cup of trembling. . . So we but whisper brokenly, As dead men do, The great strange things that are to be, That shall come true. For we are blinded, and we see; Deaf, and have ears; Despoiled, and co-heirs perfectly Of coming years. Life higher than we ever thought, Deeper than death This with our life-blood we have bought, With our vain breath. Over fire-curtained slime of the fen, Through insensate clamor, We have heard the building thoughts of men We have heard the splitting of codes apart, Like colored curtains, and Man's strong heart We have heard the sledges of a state Beyond our hoping Thunder and thunder. We are great Who once were groping. Out of the slag and fume of the pit Out of the bowels of Hell-on-earth We have seen upstraining A winged archangel of rebirth Too strong for chaining. Now ours is the strength, ours is the might Yea, by these powers, Ours is the earth for light and right, And the future ours, Who have rent our hearts, our blood outpoured, Who have drunk all sorrow, Who have found our strength, walked with our Lord, And bought Tomorrow! William Rose Benét AUTUMN LEAVES MID-OCTOBER Leaves whirl about my feet; Leaves, leaves dance over my head Brown leaves. And their madness and love of death blow through my heart. (Oh, the perfume of these drifting golden leaves!) What wine can stain the soul with redder glory They rise like clouds of incense From swift-swinging golden censers- And the western sky is a glow of light As yellow and white as the face of a Christian saint. Autumn, autumn! I will not live! I'll go now, now, with all my memories and my joys. I will not live To have them blown Like ashes from an altar by capricious winds. UP IN THE HILLS The earth smells old and warm and mellow, and all things lie at peace. I too serenely lie here under the white-oak tree, and know the splendid flight of hours all blue and gay, sundrenched and still. The dogs chase rabbits through the hazel-brush; I hear now close at hand their eager cries, now swift receding into the distance, leaving a-trail behind them in the clear sweet air shrill bursts of joy. There's something almost drowsy in that waning clamor; It brings the stillness nearer and a sense of being bodily at one with the old warm earth, Blessedly at one with the fragrant laughing sun-baked earth, At one with its sly delightful wicked old laughter. Can this be all? CAN THIS BE ALL? Can this unfinished thing be called complete, And I be left to face it thus forever, Forever to twist and turn, remould and tint anew? ARTIST Bird, whose eyes I cannot see, Whose flight is beautiful, From your wings in passing Bright plumage is drifting down to us. |